


(Pour) Oil on the Fire

by knowing



Category: Fantastic Four (Comicverse), Spider-Man (Comicverse)
Genre: First Time, Getting Together, M/M, Modeling, Past Character Death, Photo Shoots, Photographs, post negative zone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:15:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27747340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knowing/pseuds/knowing
Summary: “Hi,” Peter said back, smiling just a little at the corners of his mouth. The same look on his face that Johnny had held tender in his heart in the Negative Zone. He had thought of Peter when he couldn’t bear thinking about Sue or Reed or Ben or the kids. Even when he had felt more dead than alive he had Peter, steadfast Peter, his touchstone.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Johnny Storm
Comments: 6
Kudos: 108





	(Pour) Oil on the Fire

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to M, B, B, and L. All remaining mistakes are my own.

Excerpt from _Johnny Storm’s Torch Song_

_It is almost impossible to live in New York and not know the Fantastic Four and their story. Their daring journey in the name of science and the aftermath of that adventure - Mr. Fantastic, the Invisible Woman, the Thing, and of course the Human Torch. Johnny Storm is affable and charming, as comfortable on set for a photoshoot as he is welcoming me into the Baxter Building._

_[Pictured: Johnny Storm in only short red shorts with a white trim and brown cowboy boots decorated by flame decals. One leg is up on a box of some sort.]_

_The Fantastic Four are heralded for their heroism and their incredible adventures in this universe and beyond but they’re most loved for who they are. Johnny Storm is no small part of that. The youngest and most accessible member of the FF has been in and out of the public eye since he was a teenager. From teenage gaffes to unbridled heroism to relationships that burned as bright as Johnny’s own flames but never lasted as long._

_[Pictured: Johnny Storm in a Fantastic Four blue chiffon babydoll dress, hair curling on his forehead, resting on his heels.]_

_It’s easy to see why Johnny may have been too much for his past romances, with the full force of his attention on you it is not an exaggeration to say it is like looking into the sun. He is personable and, at times, understandably arrogant, but more than anything Johnny Storm is a kind soul._

_[Pictured: Johnny in contrapposto, his lower half covered precariously by a sheet. Reminiscent of a Greek statue.]_

_At one point during the interview I ask Johnny what it’s like to be responsible for so much since such a young age. Most 16 year olds are worrying about getting their driver’s license, not about the fate of the planet, or the universe. Johnny isn’t 16 anymore, but he is still responsible for a great deal. I ask him, what are you scared of? What still worries you, even after all you’ve experienced?_

_“I can light myself on fire, man,” he said, smiling, “What do I have to worry about?”_

_Jonathan Lowell Spencer "Johnny" Storm died last week._

* * *

The first time Johnny modeled professionally he was 16, still gawky, mouth too big for his face. The sum total of his knowledge when it came to modeling was derived from porn; casting couch series, nubile and naive women being tricked, all the while he spent more time looking at the men doing the tricking. It made him edgy when he first walked into the studio, trying to find the grungy couch from his imagination, too tense to be comfortable.

He still remembered the photographer, young with a sweet smile, cute enough that he would think him a model if not for the giant camera around his neck. He reminded Johnny of someone, but he couldn’t figure out who, he was too old to be anyone Johnny was friends with. The shoot had been with some partnership the Fantastic Four had, official jackets or something, but mostly Johnny remembered that photographer. Sitting in front of his lens, heart beating fast in his chest, not from fear any longer, or maybe it was still fear, but a different kind. The lights had been bright, he could feel the heat emanating off of them, a comforting glow. The photographer had moved him around, his hands arranging Johnny around, him pliant and willing to be moved.

He had loved it, the attention, undivided and narrowed down to the scope of a lens, and the proof afterwards. The photos evidence enough that, at least for a little while, someone had been looking at him, and only him.

* * *

No matter how big the fight, how large the stakes, life had a funny way of going right back to normal. He had died and come back to life, and died, again and again. And again. The universe had very nearly ended, and yet, Peter’s apartment was almost exactly as he had remembered it. Messy and lived in. He bet if he went in the bathroom he’d see Peter’s ugly new suit in the sink drying.

It was unchanged in a way Baxter hadn’t been. It still had its ceiling for one. Johnny moseyed around, no real purpose, just acclimating to life back in this universe, to being around Peter again. He couldn’t help dragging his hands on everything, the wall, fiddling with photos Peter had hanging up, the back of the couch. Pete’s apartment felt the same, looked the same, smelled the same.

Except for the coffee table Johnny saw out of the corner of his eye. It looked different, just as cheap and scuffed, but a different color and less glass. He’d always thought Peter having any glass in his apartment was playing with fire. No doubt his old table had broken in some hilarious and wholly Peter way. He walked over to the table, intent on maybe flipping through Webs which Peter always had somewhere in his house. That’s when he saw them.

He didn’t realize what they were at first. Photos of course, but he saw only small details, not the whole picture. Pink fabric against suntanned skin, a leg provocatively stretched out, blonde hair, blue eyes. It was him. Johnny had forgotten all about that photoshoot. He had been looking forward to it for months, anxiously anticipating them being published, and then he had died. He had forgotten all about them after.

He could barely recognize the man in those photos. Even then he had felt crushed under a great weight - his family, the love he’d carried with him for a decade never to be returned, a profound cowardice he couldn’t rid himself of. Still he’d had hope then, that last little flame he could never truly snuff out. The flame that made him Johnny Storm, as much a part of him as his actual powers. Until he could, until he had. Until the Negative Zone. There was no room for hope, no room for anything but death and life and the endless cycle.

The man in the photo was soft in a way Johnny could hardly remember having been, a soft layer of fat over muscle that said, _look at me, I am loved._ Maybe not in every way he had wanted, and he had wanted, but there was no denying the way love clung to him.

“Oh geez,” Johnny heard Peter say behind him, that frantic tone that preceded the typical Parker spiel that he had missed so much.

Johnny smiled to himself. He’d spent who knows how long in the Negative Zone but Peter could still bring a smile to his face.

“I thought these were only online,” Johnny said, grabbing the topmost picture off the pile.

Peter mumbled something too quiet for Johnny to hear, coming up behind him. The incredible heat coming off of Peter was still one of the most comforting things Johnny had ever felt, up there with Sue’s arms around him. Peter’s hand came around to grab the picture but Johnny didn’t let go.

“What was that?”

“I said,” Peter replied, long suffering, “they were.”

“Oh,” Johnny said, still staring down at the picture.

He felt as if he were looking at those pictures from a great distance, removed from who he had been when those photos were taken. The face staring up at him was foreign, not just because of how he looked but because of what he’d wanted then. Some people posted pictures or stories on Instagram to get their crushes attention, Johnny did photoshoots. The Johnny in these photos would’ve been thrilled to find them hanging around in Peter’s apartment, and he still was a little, but he knew they meant something different now than they would’ve then. They were the last photos taken of him before he died and Peter was exactly the sort to look beyond anything else happening in the photos and focus on that.

Johnny shuffled the pictures, fingers sliding against the glossy paper and Peter’s fingers resting on the photos. Underneath the pile of pictures was Peter’s own book, Webs, an action shot of Spider-man shining through under a photo of Johnny smizing for the camera. It felt like that should mean something but Johnny was still a beat off, a step behind. He couldn’t make sense of it.

“I’m a photographer!” Peter was saying behind him, “I can recognize good photos when I see them. No matter who’s in them.”

Johnny let the photos drop and turned to face Peter, shocked all over by how close he was and that he was there at all.

“Spidey,” Johnny said, voice caught in his throat. Peter looked good, alive. There was a flush high up on his cheeks, his mouth wet and shiny and hanging open just a little. Johnny had missed him so much.

“Hi,” Peter said back, smiling just a little at the corners of his mouth. The same look on his face that Johnny had held tender in his heart in the Negative Zone. He had thought of Peter when he couldn’t bear thinking about Sue or Reed or Ben or the kids. Even when he had felt more dead than alive he had Peter, steadfast Peter, his touchstone.

It would be too much to say that he missed him, not that he was unfamiliar with spontaneous emotional declarations, but he was too raw to handle the nonchalantness of Peter’s response.

“You hungry?” Peter asked.

He hadn’t moved an inch, not closer, not farther. His heat made Johnny feel alive; in the Negative Zone he hadn’t been alive, not really, not entirely. Schrodinger’s Cat - Johnny was alive and dead all at the same time. Dead until you opened the Negative Zone, alive until Annihilus wrapped his claws around his throat and tore him asunder. Dead until the worms worked their way through him, until he was as much worm as man. As much dead as alive. Schrodinger’s Johnny.

“Johnny?”

“No, yeah, sorry. Yeah.” Johnny said, even though he wasn’t hungry. It would make Peter feel better to feed him.

Peter didn’t move for a beat, and when he did it was hesitant, as if he didn’t want to lose sight of Johnny. Johnny was just as reluctant to lose sight of Peter, for all he was desperate for a moment alone. Not that Johnny could ever forget where Peter was if they were in the same building, he was always on the periphery of his awareness.

Peter was still talking as he walked to the kitchen, practically in the same room for how tiny his apartment was, “Anything in particular you want?”

“Do you actually have any food in that fridge, Pete?” Johnny asked.

Peter was suspiciously silent, the only sound his rummaging around, and Johnny felt fondness swell within him, until he almost felt like his old self.

“Ah-ha!” Peter said.

Johnny turned around just in time to catch the frozen Hot Pocket flung at him. Peter had a bad habit of forgetting that not everyone had a precognitive danger sense.

“You make all your guests cook?” Johnny asked, absentmindedly throwing the Hot Pocket from one hand to the other, heating it up.

“Only my favorite ones,” Peter said, all smiles.

“Right,” said Johnny, before biting into the Hot Pocket. He always made it as hot as it could get before it would turn to charcoal.

Johnny wandered back over to the photos, dropping himself down on the couch with a flourish. The photos were glossy, the paper thick with that sheen that always looked professional to him. It must’ve cost Pete a pretty penny to print them out. Johnny left the Hot Pocket oozing on the table as he picked up all the photos.

It seemed impossible for Peter to have these pictures hanging around, flagrantly splayed across his coffee table, some of the pictures more worn than others, as if he held them often. Had Peter sat where Johnny did now, holding these same pictures, thinking about him? He felt himself start to blush. Had Peter cried over these photos? Just looked at them, or had he -

“You look good,” said Peter, his voice startling Johnny out of his thoughts.

“I did,” Johnny said, voice caught in his throat as he tried not to turn around and watch Peter circle the couch, circle him.

“Did?” Pete asked, finally throwing himself down on the couch, legs spread wide, the length of him pressed hot and close against Johnny.

“C’mon Peter,” Johnny said, unable to make himself look Peter in the eye. It was one thing to admit to yourself the reality of how you looked and Johnny had barely done that. It was a whole other thing to talk about it with the guy you’d been in love with half your life who had never looked twice at you.

“It’s not like you to be modest, hot stuff,” Peter said, throwing his arm around Johnny’s shoulder so he could haul him in close and grab at the picture Johnny had been fiddling with. In this picture, the one that was the most worn, Johnny was only wearing what could be generously described as a sheer blue babydoll dress, flames wicking off of him.

“Spidey,” Johnny said, voice weak, a blush working it’s way up and down his face, “You don’t gotta.”

“Don’t gotta what, Torchy?” Peter asked, voice lowering to match Johnny’s but still just as firm. He could feel Peter looking at him but he couldn’t make himself look away from the picture, he wasn’t even really seeing it, he just couldn’t look at Peter.

Johnny didn’t answer, couldn’t. Peter tugged the photo out of his hands, still so gentle.

“Johnny,” Peter said, “Look at me.” But he had already grabbed Johnny's chin and made him look. His fingers were warm and sure, but held Johnny tight. He couldn’t have moved if he wanted to - unless Peter wanted him to.

Peter’s eyes scanned his face, looking him up and down, as if trying to memorize him - taking a mental picture. Johnny wanted to make a joke, diffuse the situation, give himself something to hide behind, but the look on Peter’s face struck him dumb. Peter was so close, so near, all of his considerable attention focused solely on Johnny. It was all he’d ever dreamed of, ever wanted, just him and Peter, no one else. No emergencies to tear them apart or pull Pete’s focus the way it always did. He half expected to hear an explosion or two in the background, something to break the tension.

Peter’s eyebrows came together briefly before moving apart, his furrowed brow spoke a whole language that Johnny was glad to not have forgotten. His fingers were still tight on Johnny’s chin, Johnny’s mouth trembling where it lay as open as Peter’s grip let him.

“You gotta tell me if I’m wrong here, kid,” said Peter, leaning in slow enough Johnny could stop him if he wanted to.

“You’re not wrong Peter,” Johnny said, desperate all of a sudden, “Pete, you’re not wrong.”

Peter’s mouth was hot and frantic against his, his hands framing Johnny’s head as Johnny grabbed desperately at Peter’s shirt, twisting the fabric. He couldn’t get close enough, couldn’t get enough of Peter’s mouth.

Johnny wanted to press tight, crawl up onto Peter’s lap, but he couldn’t move. Peter’s hold was as implacable as his mouth, all he could do was cling to Peter and do his best not embarrass himself too much. Everything about Peter was unwavering, his mouth slow and warm, even his tongue slipping into Johnny’s open mouth was confident.

Peter was eating him alive, thumb digging into his cheekbones hard enough to hurt, tongue licking into Johnny’s willing mouth.

“Peter,” Johnny said, lips sliding to press wet kisses to Peter’s jaw. He couldn’t make himself pull away, had to keep touching Peter or he’d disappear and Johnny would wake up alone in his cell, the Light Brigade across from him. Peter’s hand slid down his body, stopping to grope at Johnny’s waist and hip, the same way he imagined Peter might with a girl. Johnny made a startled sound when Peter grabbed at the thick of his thigh and hauled him into his lap. Peter clutched greedy handfuls of Johnny, his thighs, his ass, even reaching up to grope at his chest - Johnny couldn’t stop wondering if this is what he was like with his girlfriends.

Peter pulled him into a steady grind, Johnny was already half hard, leaking sweetly in his shorts. With anyone else, his legs spread as they were, cock jerking with every grind, he would have felt dirty - slutty. With Peter he just felt hot, all over. He couldn’t think, head muggy and clouded.

Johnny pulled his mouth away from Peter’s. Peter was too much, eclipsing out every thought until he could not think about anything that was not Peter’s hands on him, his mouth, chest against chest and the horrible truth that Peter was definitely at least an inch taller than him. He arched his back, pulling away to try to think, but Peter wasn’t having any of that.

“C’mere,” Pete said, dragging Johnny’s shirt up enough to smooth his hand over taut belly and firm pecs, “Come back here, hot stuff.”

Ah, Johnny panted, mouth lax and lips tingling where Peter had been touching him. Peter’s hands were affectionate but firm as they pulled him close enough to kiss again, and again, and again. Johnny was drowning in him, feverish almost, if he could remember what that felt like.

“Peter,” Johnny sighed into his mouth, arms wrapping around and clinging to Peter’s shoulders.

Peter was breathing noisily, like he was out of breath in a way Johnny had only ever heard him be when he was holding an entire building over his head. Out of a sense of self preservation Johnny had never let himself imagine what Peter would be like in bed, but even still stray thoughts snuck in around the edges of his mind. He wouldn’t have expected this, how much Peter liked it. How much he liked how much Peter liked it. Just some messy kissing and bodies pressed up against each other.

He liked everything about this. The warm skin of Peter’s back Johnny’s hands found snaking their way under his shirt, his muscles hard like rock that Johnny knew held enough strength to throw a car clean across the city. Johnny mostly tried not to think about the times he’d had sex before, but even when he’d been enjoying it - those few times - it had never been like this.

“Johnny,” Peter breathed, eyes wide, sounding as shocked as Johnny felt.

“Come on,” Johnny said, brave at last. He tried to pull away, to lead them to the bedroom, but Peter held fast, as if Johnny would ever willingly leave him.

“Don’t leave,” Peter said, pulling Johnny in until their foreheads were resting against each other and Peter was just a blur of colors.

“I’m not going anywhere anytime soon,” Johnny said, smiling, “I’m just trying to move this to the bedroom.”

“Oh,” Peter said, “Well why didn’t you just say so?”

Johnny scowled, “I don’t know why I thought you’d be less annoying in bed.”

Peter grinned. “Well, we’re not in bed yet are we?”

“Yeah, and who’s fault is that?”

“Upsy daisy!” Peter said, ignoring him and standing up, bringing Johnny with him.

“Peter!”

Johnny clung to him tightly, using the excuse of falling to cling to Peter in the way he had always wanted to. Johnny knew better than almost anyone how easily Peter could carry a person, he’d carried Johnny enough time over the years, after all.

Peter spun Johnny around, turning round and round on his way to the bedroom, his face split into a huge smile.

“Stop! Stop!” Johnny said in between laughs, “You’re going to drop me!”

“Never,” Peter said, stopping abruptly and holding Johnny up against the door to his bedroom.

“I know Peter, I know.” Johnny pressed his palm to Peter’s cheek, “But if you don’t get me into bed soon I’m going to light you on fire.”

Peter thunked his head down on Johnny’s shoulder and then looked up at the ceiling just as dramatically before saying, “What have I done to deserve this?”

“Well,” Peter continued without any input from Johnny, “You heard the man.”

“Stop. Talking.”

Peter just laughed, laying Johnny out on the bed with deceptive gentleness before flopping down right on top of him.

“Oof,” Johnny said.

Peter was so handsome, Johnny had always known so but never really let himself enjoy that fact. He let himself enjoy it now, Peter’s strong nose and sharp jaw, the boyish mess to his hair, the thick furrow of his brows, and how strong Peter’s shoulders looked holding himself up over Johnny. He strained up to Peter for a kiss, amused despite himself with the way Peter was making him work for it, pulling back and then leaning in deep when Johnny huffed.

The room was swimming around him, he was floating inside a desert mirage, heat wrinkling the room like his hand was doing to Peter’s sheets. Johnny pulled his mouth away from Peter’s, overwhelmed once more. Peter bit at the hinge of his jaw, and Johnny laughed a little to himself at the thought of bug bites even as he groaned.

“What’re you laughing at, huh?” Peter asked. Johnny could feel his smile against his own throat, teeth scraping skin, the intimacy of it jolting him a little, a muscle in his thigh jumping.

“You,” Johnny said and slung his leg around Peter, pulling him in tight so he could grind against him without having to strain up. He felt clumsy, his limbs heavy as he tried to climb Peter, back arching as much as it could under Peter’s weight.

“Oh, I see how it is,” Peter said, his voice no longer so carefree, coming from the depths of his chest.

Johnny thought, bizarrely, that Peter sounded like a man, and that he liked that. He liked a man, his shoulders wide and strong, arms corded with muscle, all of him screaming man. He pulled Peter’s mouth to his, needing to kiss him and clutching at him desperately.

“God,” Peter smeared against Johnny’s mouth, “You’re a firecracker in bed. I oughta - oughta web you up, keep you still that way.”

“Oh my god,” Johnny said, dick jerking so hard in his shorts it hurt.

Peter pulled back and laughed, his eyes dark and asked, “You like that?”

“Shut up!” Johnny said, “Shut up, you’re the one who brought it up! Just - just take your shirt off.”

“Your wish is my command,” Peter said. He made quick work of his shirt and preempted Johnny by undressing completely.

“If only,” Johnny said, his voice breathy as he reached out to touch the flat planes of Peter’s chest. He made himself look down, eyes traveling the length of his obliques until they landed on his cock, long and thick and cut and God willing it would be in him soon enough. He thunked his head down against the bedding, tugging his shirt off so he could have a moment's reprieve. It just figured that Peter Parker would be the whole package, and even when it was benefiting him, Johnny couldn’t help but have that teenage instinct to give him a hard time about it.

“Here,” Peter said, oblivious to Johnny’s internal crisis, “Let me help.”

Peter kissed his way down Johnny’s chest, biting down quickly here and there, audibly amused every time Johnny’s stomach twitched in response.

“Pete,” Johnny said, and Peter tugged his pants down just enough to sink his teeth in deep, leaving a mark like a brand above his dick. Johnny curled up tight around Peter’s head in response, a wild spark of heat running up his entire body like Peter had just sucked his dick instead of just giving Johnny a giant hickey.

“C’mon,” Peter said.

Johnny helpfully lifted his hips so Peter could pull his pants and briefs off. His dick pulsed wet against his thighs, his balls pulled up tight, he was so turned on from a little kissing and heavy petting. He ached, Peter put his hand on one of Johnny’s thighs and pushed it down and he whimpered, jerking the other leg out until there was more than enough room for Peter to slide right back down between them. Just the same as he’d done earlier, only this time with a lot less clothes. Their dicks could work against each other, no interference, only hot skin on hotter skin and Johnny’s precome on both of them now.

Johnny pulled at Peter’s hair, bit his mouth, crazy with it, wanting Peter closer, closer, closer. He could never get close enough, Peter’s chest rubbed against his own, he could feel the coarse hair on Peter’s legs where his own leg was wrapped around Peter’s.

Peter pulled away suddenly, as if he had to force himself, and Johnny made his displeasure known, digging his nails into where he could still reach on Peter’s shoulders. Peter didn’t even have the decency to pretend it hurt and instead asked Johnny, “Where’s the lube?”

“What?” Johnny asked, honestly not really listening.

“Lube. Where.”

“ _Oh,_ ” Johnny said and realized suddenly that they were going to fuck, that Peter was going to fuck _him._ And then he said, “Peter this is your place.”

“Right,” Peter said, eyes trailing down Johnny’s body, “Right.”

Johnny hit Peter’s ass with his thigh, “Go get it.”

“Yes, sir.” Peter said and did just that. He came back, lube in hand, and hunkered down between Johnny’s legs, eye level with his dick.

Peter’s hands were strong, sure where they worked Johnny opened, relentless even as Johnny dug his heel into Peter’s back.

 _Oh_ , Johnny heard himself saying, _oh oh oh._ He hid his face under his arm, unable to look at Peter looking at him.

“Johnny,” Peter said, voice as low as it could go.

Johnny flung the hand that had been gripping Peter’s sheets at him, and Peter, like he always did, found Johnny and held him. Their hands warm and sweaty together, fingers interlocking as Peter worked Johnny open so he could get inside him.

Peter kept kissing Johnny’s thighs, sweet and chaste and then biting roughly as a counterpoint. Johnny was going to be covered in bite marks and hickeys by the end of this, a thought which made him groan and push back onto Peter’s fingers.

“Shit,” Peter said and then pulled his fingers out, which left Johnny feeling empty, and pulled his hand out of Johnny’s, which left him feeling even emptier.

“Come here,” Johnny said, hands reaching out to Peter, and Peter obliged, his mouth now a familiar shape against Johnny’s.

They did just that for long endless minutes, holding each other tight and kissing. Peter was, once again, the one to pull away. Johnny could not have, would not have, made himself stop kissing Peter.

“C’mon, stretch,” Peter said, his lips red and swollen from Johnny’s mouth.

“I think you got the wrong Fantastic Four,” Johnny said.

“No,” Peter said, eyes dark and fixed on Johnny’s, “I have the right one.”

Johnny bit his bottom lip. That was all he’d ever wanted Peter to say, even when he was 16 and hated Peter _and_ Spider-Man. Johnny could not handle much more vulnerability when his dick was already out, and was glad when Peter got back down to business.

Johnny grabbed Peter, because he could, because he wanted to, he had always wanted to. Then he did stretch for Peter, his legs spread so Peter could look as he worked himself inside Johnny. Peter was too big for Johnny to breathe, full up, his head gone fuzzy with it and his belly pulled tight. He pulled Peter down and held him as close to him as he could, their foreheads pressed against each other until Johnny could not bear being looked at any longer and turned his head away.

Peter just laughed into his cheek, giving one last fleeting kiss, before he pulled back, Johnny’s hands on him keeping him close only for as long as Peter wanted. He was being noisy, he knew he was, he couldn’t help it.

He wanted - wanted Peter close, but he wanted Peter to keep thrusting as hard as he was, shoving him up the bed until he had to brace himself against the headboard.

“Like that,” Peter kept saying, as if Johnny was doing anything other than laying there and taking it.

“Peter,” Johnny said, looking at him, really looking at him. His messy eyebrows, so dark and wide, the strength in his jaw as he clenched it, concentrated on Johnny. His thighs strong under his own, sweat just starting to bead at his hairline, in between his pecs.

He moaned, one hand going down to grab Peter’s arm where he was holding his hips, pulling Johnny down onto his dick. All he could do was claw at Peter’s wrist, ineffectual, legs spread too wide by Peter’s own thighs for any leverage. He didn’t think this was what Peter was like with his girls at all. This felt selfish, greedy, that great strength just barely hidden uncoiled beneath his skin. This was all for Johnny, who had known Peter since he was 16 and an asshole.

“Come here,” Johnny said, panting.

“I’m here, I’m here,” Peter said.

“No,” Johnny said, “Come _here,_ ” and then he pulled Peter down as best he could until Peter got with the program and laid out flat against Johnny.

His arms went around those broad shoulders, holding on tight as Peter moved against him, one of Peter’s hands holding Johnny’s legs open by the knee, the other holding Peter up. Like this they could curl into each other, reaching and tugging, Peter’s great weight pressing Johnny into the bed so Johnny could better push up against him.

They worked with and against each other like that, Peter rocking into him, Johnny’s leg held down where he wanted to wrap it around Peter. His back arched, muscles almost cramping with a pleasure so intense it skated the edge of pain. He came like that, held and covered by Peter, the world gone except for the little bubble they existed in.

Peter kissed him through it, a wet slide of lips, as unfairly coordinated as ever. He let go of Johnny’s leg, letting Johnny wrap them tight around his hips, and dragged his hand up Johnny’s body. Smooth friction until he reached Johnny’s face, holding him still to kiss as he had done earlier. Johnny held Peter’s face in turn, holding him tight as he came.

“Ah,” Johnny said, butting his forehead gently against Peter’s.

“Hi there,” Peter said.

Johnny stroked Peter’s face where he still held it, looking deep into his eyes, enjoying the way Peter’s pupils dilated and contracted as he looked at Johnny. He didn’t want to let go of Peter, maybe ever, and it was looking like Peter wanted to hold on to him just as much.

Peter held him firmly, resting his weight on Johnny, and said, “Let’s get coffee.”

Johnny laughed. “Right now?”

Peter butted his head against Johnny’s, like a particularly affectionate cat, and said, “Right now, today, tomorrow, forever.”

“Oh,” Johnny said quietly, too pleased for words.

“I missed you Johnny,” Peter said, brows furrowed with something like pain, like he was hurting.

Johnny reached out and touched the space between Peter’s eyebrows, massaging away the hurt, because he could, because he had always wanted to, even before he knew what Peter’s face looked like.

Peter reached up and clasped Johnny’s hand, and now they were helplessly intertwined, wrapped up in each other.

“Get coffee with me,” Peter said, “Go on a date with me.”

“Okay,” Johnny said, suffused with warmth, Peter’s weight heavy on him, their legs coiled together, and his hand held in Peter’s. “Let’s do it.”


End file.
